laugh loud laugh last
by Princess of Radiance
Summary: Nnoitra goes to Hell after his defeat at the hands of Kenpachi. When the haughty fall, they fall hard.


My second Bleach fic, and first to get posted. I have a lot of Nnoitra feels I don't know what to do with, okay?

* * *

_To descend from the top  
Like a beautifully falling star  
Tragic, its path down from the  
Heavens  
To land in the dirt  
Become the worm that crawls  
The highest risen  
Are the ones  
That fall the most beautifully  
And the most tragic_

**laugh loud laugh last**

The chains bite, the cuffs tear at his wrists as he swings, rubbing the skin red-raw and painful to the touch. He keeps swinging, keeps tearing at the wounds, at the flesh of the beasts that travel his new home, his punishment, his hell.

They always win, they never stop winning. He is beaten bloody, beaten raw and bruised and utterly destroyed, exploding into an ocean of endless pain, until his body reforms itself fresh and new, reborn to begin the cycle again.

It is the nature of his beast to keep fighting, continue pressing against this enemy, this never-ceasing foe, this obstacle he must, he needs to tear down. It is a fire within him, burning his empty hollowed core, the need to be the best. But in this tormented world, the best is a meaningless word, the top so far above him he can no longer see.

He does not slow, though. Does not falter. Keeps swinging and swinging like a mindless beast, screaming battle cries until he cannot speak, cannot breathe without needles in his throat. His weapon cracks and tarnishes, his bone-white clothes darkened with countless occasions of spilled blood and collected grime.

Time is meaningless in this place, and he soon forgets the when it is. Life for him blurs into an endless stream of fight-die-reborn-fight-die-reborn, over and over until he has lost any ability to recall when it was any other way.

The others do not appreciate his tenacity; they have long given up. He kills them too, when he sees them, cannot stand their silent acceptance of this fate, silent shadows who carry chains like the weight of the world. They do not fight back at first, allow him to tear through them like paper, yet one cycle of fight he is at momentary rest when they take him by surprise.

They claw and tear like animals, human souls equal to hollow in hell, tear and rip and claw at his clothes, his face, his skin, claw him to the bone, tear him to shreds and chew and spit him out. Then they do the worst.

He screams as hooked hands, curled fingers reach for his mask, tear and claw and pull until chunks of it come away, glistening pure-snow-white against crimson and flesh and he cannot feel but the pain, the agony, the deep scarring _humiliation._

His cycles continue, but the mask does not repair – masks cannot repair. He hides the wound, forever tatters of bone and pitted scarred ruined flesh. It has wounded him in other ways, too. His blade is smaller, his energy waned and dissipated. It has wounded his spirit.

He is humiliated, broken, humbled and fallen and he knows it too-too well. He has become what he has done to others, done to Her. He is ruined.

He tries to fight, tries to keep fighting, but something has gone out of him – the fire within has died to a flicker, a spark, and no kindling can restore it to him. He is singled out by the few remaining fighters as easy prey at last, and they begin to stalk and pounce and wound and scar and he can no longer defend.

He lets his sword – his scythe his weapon his soul – fall at last, and he allows himself to be carried away by the current of the cycle, no longer swimming against the flow.

He thinks bitterly that now She would be happy, now She would tell him She'd always been right, She'd always known, and now what She predicted has happened. He's learned his lesson in the worst way, and her sad face, sad smile – the final thing he saw, burned into his vision and mind for eternity – haunt him when he closes his eyes.

But soon even that is taken from him as the cycle consumes him. He becomes like the rest, a haunted shade of former glory and sin and arrogance, embodying his aspect at last, existing until the next rebirth, his mind a fogged gray emptiness, despair and resignation and pain the only things left to him.

He forgets everything, memories consumed with the rest – his name, his voice, his purpose, his colleagues and his master, all lost to the endless stream of death-rebirth. She is lost too, leaving him with an even deeper emptiness as he loses the meaning behind the ache in his shattered mask.

The Quinto Espada is no more than a memory in the minds of those he fought, and his broken shadow flows with the cycle in hell, torn and scarred and humbled at last.


End file.
